


no time to bow down

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: After six months, Grant thinks he knows what to expect from this assignment. It's about to throw him a curve ball.





	no time to bow down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jdphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/gifts).



> This is a (BARELY on time) birthday present for the lovely, spectacular, AMAZING JD, whom I love with all my heart. She is the bestest JD and deserves ALL the presents, even ones as lame as this. Happy birthday, JD!!!! <3
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

After six horrible months, Grant can say with confidence that the worst part of being undercover with a cult are the daily ‘Oneness Meetings.’

One part mission briefing, two parts religious service, and five parts ego boosting for Benji (the so-called “father” of this group of crazies), the Oneness Meetings are a three-hour daily dose of torture that have genuinely driven Grant to fondly reminisce about his time as a prisoner in Madripoor. At least those gun runners had the decency not to sermonize while they waterboarded him.

Unfortunately, the only acceptable excuse for not attending a Oneness Meeting is being sent on a ‘holy mission’ by Benji—something that Grant, as a faceless mid-level believer, isn’t likely to be assigned anytime soon. Short of deliberately breaking his cover and getting to flee, his only choice is to endure.

And _enduring_ is exactly what he’s doing one Tuesday afternoon. His watch says they’ve reached the halfway point (although his brain swears they’ve been here for at least a year), and the clouds of incense blanketing the room are starting to thin. Any second now, Benji’s gonna order the acolytes to relight the holders, and Grant’s headache will get that much worse. Maybe if he can just trip the acolyte that passes him…

Hold on. Something’s happening.

“My children,” Benji says, spreading his arms wide, “today is a glorious day.”

Is it? There was nothing about glory in the daily notes.

“Today,” he continues, nodding to the guards on the door, “is the start of our new mission.”

Huh.

Usually, this is the part where Grant would tune back out—they have a whole boatload of _missions_ , each more banal than the last—but…something’s different. The adorers have stopped chanting, which has literally never happened before, and the guards are pulling the doors open.

“Today,” Benji thunders, “we will force the nonbelievers to believe!”

Oh boy. That doesn’t sound good.

There’s some kind of commotion happening at the entrance…the source of which becomes clear as two guards march down the center aisle, carrying a struggling woman between them.

“We will punish the soulless masses of this ungrateful planet!” Benji shouts. “For years, we have warned them against their wicked ways, and they have refused to listen, but today we will _make them_ listen!”

Echoes of agreement sound all around Grant (“Make them listen! Punish the nonbelievers! Show them the truth!”), but he doesn’t join in. He’s close enough to the aisle to get a good look at the woman as she’s carried past, and…

There’s something familiar about her. Something _really_ familiar. Somewhere in the back of his incense-fogged, boredom-dulled brain is a tiny voice screaming that he should absolutely recognize this woman.

He doesn’t, though. Maybe it’s the bruises she’s covered in (she’s been worked over, and hard; he’s impressed she’s still putting up such a fight), maybe it’s the crappy lighting in here, maybe it’s just that six whole months of this Oneness crap has permanently damaged him—for whatever reason, he just can’t place her.

But he needs to, and fast. If she’s someone he’s met on another mission, if she knows him as a different cover—or worse, as _himself_ —she could give him away. And if she gives him away…

As Grant struggles to think, the woman is forced to her knees at the base of the altar.

“And here is our guest of honor,” Benji says, snapping right back into his reasonable-leader-of-all voice. It’s enough to give a guy whiplash. “Are you ready to play your part, daughter?”

She pins him with a glare that could cut glass. It’s an impressive level of spite coming from someone who probably can’t even see out of her badly swollen right eye.

Benji frowns down at her. “I asked you a question, daughter.”

The guard on the right cuffs her over the head. The woman shakes her hair out of her face and ups the glare a notch.

“The proper form of address,” she bites out, “is ‘Your Highness.’”

Oh fuck. Oh _fuck_.

That’s why Grant recognizes her: she’s the crown fucking princess of Maveth. Somehow, these lunatics have managed to kidnap—and rough up—the daughter of the single most trigger-happy woman on the _planet_.

They’re all gonna die.

“No, daughter,” Benji says calmly. “As I’m sure my faithful have already explained to you, no one is higher than I.”

The princess—Jemma, he remembers—rolls her eyes and looks pointedly away.

Benji is undeterred, because he’s a fucking moron. “We honor you today, daughter,” he says. “You will serve as the device through which the unfaithful masses of this hell learn the error of their ways. Through you, the world will repent and become holy.”

Princess Jemma yawns.

“Your disrespect does you no credit,” Benji scolds, and then turns to the acolytes. “Bring the camera.”

Oh, he _cannot_ be serious…but he is. Two acolytes scurry up the steps to the altar, carrying a video camera and a tripod, which they carefully angle towards the still-kneeling princess.

Seriously? _Seriously_? Not only are they stupid enough to kidnap and injure the princess, they’re gonna _film_ it?

If they actually _kill_ the princess, Queen Adora will blow this whole damn country off the map. And after that, probably a few neighboring countries for good measure.

It’s time for Grant to get out of here.

Fortunately, he’s the kind of guy who plans ahead, and he always knew this wasn’t an assignment where leaving would be as easy as walking out the front door. He’s got a number of contingency plans in place…one of which is, coincidentally, uniquely suited to this situation.

Three simple taps on his phone (easily accomplished without taking it out of his pocket, which is of course forbidden during Oneness Meetings), and the whole compound is rocked by a series of strategically-placed explosions.

Screaming starts and immediately stops at Benji’s raised hands.

“Peace, my children!” he orders. “Be unafraid! We will fight these enemies as we have fought all others!”

A reassured murmur runs through the crowd.

“Defenders, to your posts!” Benji orders, and that’s Grant’s cue.

He’s deliberately a little slow to join the crowd of people streaming down the aisle, though, hoping to hear—

“Return our guest to her room,” is Benji’s (much quieter) order to the acolytes. “See that she does not leave it.”

Good.

In the chaos of the hall, it’s easy to slip away—in fact, the next twenty minutes are easy.

He cuts through the cafeteria to the dorms, grabs his go bag and his (carefully hidden) guns from his room, and—with another few taps on his phone—blows another set of explosives. It’s actually kinda eerie; he feels the ground shake and hears the boom, but even though the dorms are close enough to the gathering hall to hear any screams…there’s nothing. Pure silence once the explosion fades.

These lunatics really do believe in all of Benji’s crap. He almost feels sorry for them.

Almost.

Since he has his phone out anyway, he takes a second to text SHIELD. The message is both heavily coded and brief: need extraction, condition poor, and a set of coordinates twenty miles away from the compound.

That done, he heads for the Enlightenment Center.

 

 

+++

 

 

Jemma’s cell is small and quiet and cold. The concrete walls are like ice; it’s heaven to rest her throbbing face against one and let the chill soothe her bruises.

Cold concrete won’t do much for her ribs, however—or her right knee, which she fears may have sustained permanent damage. Every inch of her hurts, and the cup of sweet-smelling juice by the door (passed in by a blankly pleasant woman who said it would ease her pains, which Jemma took to mean it was drugged) is growing more tempting by the minute.

Still, she stands—or sits, rather—firm. She can ignore the clarion call of (potential) oblivion. Those explosions that interrupted whatever sort of madness she was dragged into earlier—they must be her mother’s army, coming to rescue her. She’s positive that her rescuers will be breaking down the door any moment now, and she’s determined to greet them with clear-minded poise.

(The other possibility—that her captors will decide to cut their losses and kill her before she can be rescued—she is equally determined to ignore.)

Poise is difficult, though, when her every breath aches and every twitch sends pain screaming up her right leg. She’s proud that she was able to put up a fight, but she did herself no favors forcing her captors to drag her about.

She hopes her rescue doesn’t take much longer—and no sooner does she think such than a commotion sounds outside her cell.

“Stop right there!”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“No!”

A scream. Four gunshots. Silence.

Jemma holds her breath.

When the door finally opens, it does so to reveal a man dressed in the same ludicrous purple robes all the rest of her captors have worn. His, however, are splattered with blood—blood that _must_ belong to some of her people, her mother’s soldiers dead in the corridor on her account.

Tears burn in her throat, but she lifts her chin and stares the man down. If she’s to die—which seems likely; he’s still holding the gun he used to kill her would-be rescuers—she will do so without sniveling like a frightened child. She will make her mother and her people proud, even if they’ll never know she did.

“Can you walk?” he asks.

“No.” It’s the truth, but also a denial of his intent. “If you’re going to kill me, you’ll have to do it right here.”

“Good thing I’m not gonna kill you, then,” he says. He holds up his gun (as if she could have missed it!), then tucks it out of sight behind his back. “I’m a SHIELD agent. I’m here to get you home.”

Jemma’s breath whooshes out of her, a mistake that sends pain stabbing at her ribs and whites out her vision. When she can see again, the man is kneeling before her, face creased in concern.

“Can you tell me what hurts, Your Highness?”

“Everything,” she answers. “Why are you dressed like one of them?”

For some reason, the question makes him smile.

“I was undercover,” he says, “lucky for you. Pretty sure you were about five minutes away from being executed live on camera; if I hadn’t set off those bombs…”

He trails off as he digs through the duffle bag she’s only just noticed he’s brought with him, but Jemma’s grateful for his distraction. It means he misses the feelings she doesn’t quite manage to keep off her face.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” he echoes, glancing up at her.

“It’s just, I thought…the army…”

Silly of her, really. How could they have possibly found her this quickly, or attacked at a moment so perfect? Of course it was someone already here.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” her rescuer says—though he doesn’t sound it. “Just me.”

“And do you have a name?” she asks.

“Grant Ward,” he says, and Jemma isn’t in so much pain that she can’t appreciate just how stunning his smile is. “Nice to meet you.”

“Jemma,” she says. “And the pleasure is mine…or will be, if you can get me out of here.”

Agent Ward only smiles and pushes to his feet so that he might strip off his robe, but after a moment (a moment spent gaping; if she’s not in too much pain to appreciate his smile, his bare torso nearly makes her forget that pain even exists), she realizes how terribly rude that was.

“I’m sorry,” she says at once. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I—I only…”

How to explain?

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, pausing to retrieve a shirt from his bag and pull it on. Thankfully, he was wearing trousers under the robe, and is thus now fully dressed once more. “I get it.”

“Do you?”

“Sure. You’re in pain, you’re scared, and you’ve been mouthing off to hide it.” To her surprise, he passes her his gun, which she accepts with extreme trepidation. “It’s a coping strategy—and it’s pretty impressive you’ve been able to keep it up for so long.”

“For so long?” she echoes. It’s only been a few minutes.

“The proper form of address is Your Highness,” he mimics, in a passable attempt at her accent. She, however, most certainly wasn’t laughing when she spoke those words.

“Oh. Yes.”

“Takes a hell of a lot of nerve to sass a guy like Benji in front of that kinda crowd,” he muses. “I was impressed, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I think.”

The addition earns her another smile—this one over his shoulder, as he moves to check the corridor.

“Any chance you were lying about not being able to walk?” he asks conversationally.

“I’m afraid not,” she says. “My knee is something of a mess.”

“Great.” He takes a deep breath and returns to her side. “You know how to use one of those?”

She looks down at the gun, turning it over carefully in her lap. “In theory. But I’ve only ever shot at paper targets.”

“Better than nothing,” he mutters. Then, louder, he says, “Okay, if you can’t walk, I’m gonna have to carry you. And I’m not gonna have any free hands.”

Jemma’s heart skips a beat. “Shall I take that to mean that you expect _me_ to do any necessary shooting?”

“I’m not expecting shooting to be necessary,” he says. “I’ve got a good distraction going and I planned out my escape route months ago. But if we _do_ come across anyone…yeah. I’m gonna need you to shoot them. You think you can manage that?”

She’s never shot anyone in her life. She’s _certainly_ never killed anyone—and her trainers were all very firm that when one shoots, one must always do so under the assumption that one will kill one’s target.

Is she capable of taking a life? Even to save her own?

“I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?” she asks.

“That’s the spirit.” He draws a phone from his pocket, taps at the screen, and tucks it calmly away as another explosion shakes the ground beneath them. “And that was my last set of bombs, so let’s hope this doesn’t take too long. Up you get.”

He scoops her up into a bridal carry that leaves her breathless for all the wrong reasons—namely, the agonizing pressure it puts on her ribs and knee. A cry escapes her despite herself.

“Sorry,” Ward says. “Stay with me, okay? We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Her vision is going spotty, blissful oblivion tugging at the edges of her awareness…but no. No, she needs to stay conscious, to be ready to defend them if she must.

She can survive this. She’s lasted this long, she can last a while longer.

Jemma clings tight to consciousness—and Ward’s shirt, for good measure.

She can do this.

 

 

+++

 

 

The princess is stark white and sweating by the time they reach the car tucked away outside the compound.

“Oh, thank Alveus,” she says—wheezes, really. Grant’s starting to worry about her breathing. “Please tell me we’re taking that.”

“Yep,” he says. “Think you can get the door?”

She does, and he sets her down sideways in the passenger seat—facing him, so he can get a good look at her. He’s already had a nice long look at her face (bruised, swollen, possible broken cheekbone), but now that they’re out of immediate danger, it’s time to address what he can’t see.

“Aside from your knee,” he says, “what’s the damage?”

“My ribs, I think.” Slumping against the seat, she indicates her left side. “I don’t know if they’re broken, but they certainly hurt.”

And he just carried her for at least half a mile, putting strain on them the whole way. Fuck.

But there’s nothing he can do about that now—or about her ribs, really. If she’d punctured a lung, they’d know it by now; all he can do going forward is be careful with her until he can hand her over to a doctor. He could do a little diagnosing himself, check whether her ribs really are broken, but that’d require her lifting her dress at the very least, and since he can’t help her either way…better to skip it and not risk making her uncomfortable.

“Anything else?” he asks. “Gaping wounds? Anything bleeding?”

“I don’t think so,” she says, a little faintly.

Thankfully, a quick visual inspection backs that up. No way could her dress or leggings (pale blue and bright red, respectively) hide any bloodstains. If she were bleeding, it’d be obvious.

“Good,” he says, and—seeing how she’s drooping—snags his gun from her before she can drop it. “Extraction’s only a few miles away. Think you can stay awake for me?”

“Of course,” she asserts, rallying.

Still, he can see the effort it takes her to turn in her seat—and she doesn’t even bother to _try_ with the seatbelt. He’s not surprised that she passes out before they reach the end of the street.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t _worried_ by it, though. Even putting aside her mother’s well-deserved reputation and the likelihood of her wreaking global retaliation if her daughter dies, he’s starting to get pretty fond of the princess. She’s got nerve—and she’s damn tough. A half-mile’s a long fucking way to be carried like that with a busted knee; he was basically putting direct pressure on it the whole way.

But she didn’t complain once. Made a few sounds, sure, even whimpered a little, but she never complained.

He knows agents that aren’t that tough. In a civilian—in a no doubt pampered _princess_ , even—it’s really fucking impressive.

“We’re okay,” he says to himself as they leave the city limits. “Almost there.”

Of course, there’s always the chance that it won’t be as easy as getting to the extraction point. He told SHIELD he was in bad shape, but with the queen of Maveth’s only daughter missing, they’ve gotta be scrambling right now. One lone specialist in the middle of the Vana Kingdom isn’t gonna be a major priority.

That’d change if he told them he had the princess, of course, but he doesn’t wanna broadcast that over the main channels unless he absolutely has to. He’ll just have to hope John’s paying attention and can…

…What the fuck?

There’s a giant jet waiting for them in the field he marked for extraction. Not a quinjet, an actual _jet_ —one of the Globemasters Fury saves for his favorites.

Grant was just…really not expecting this.

He slows to a stop a good eight hundred yards away from it and flashes his headlights in a quick pattern every SHIELD agent learns at the Academy. The Open Sesame Sequence, Agent Farrow used to call it. To anyone familiar with Morse code, it’s a bunch of nonsense—but to a SHIELD agent, it means _I’m one of you and I’m friendly, please don’t shoot_.

In response to the sequence, the Globemaster’s ramp lowers. Grant pulls up to the bottom of it and, seeing both vehicle spaces in the cargo hold occupied, parks. By the time he turns off the car and rounds the front of it, the welcoming committee is waiting for him.

To his surprise, there’s a familiar face among them.

“Trip,” he says, accepting the offered handshake. “Good to see you.”

“You, too,” Trip says. “This is Agent Coulson, my CO, and Skye, a consultant.”

“Nice to meet you,” Grant says, shaking their hands. “Thanks for the rescue.”

“Glad to help.” Coulson gives him an obvious once-over. “Your SOS said you were wounded?”

“Yeah, I fudged the truth a little,” he admits. “Didn’t wanna broadcast I was carrying precious cargo.”

He forestalls any further questions by opening the passenger side door and stepping aside to reveal the princess.

“Holy shit,” Skye breathes. “Is that…?”

“Yeah, and she’s not in good shape,” he says—directing it to Trip, who he knows has med-tech training. “Possible broken ribs, knee in bad enough shape she couldn’t walk, and knowing the people who had her, I can’t promise she’s had any food or water since she was taken.”

Trip nods and looks to Skye. “I need the stretcher from the medpod.”

“On it!”

She’s off like a shot, and Grant and Coulson both retreat a little to give Trip room to work as he does what he can to examine the princess without moving her.

“What can you tell me?” Coulson asks.

“Plenty.” Grant shrugs. “I’ve been under for the last six months with a cult called the Children of Vanir. All signs pointed to them being crazy but mostly harmless…until today, when they dragged her in. Looked all set to execute her on camera to make a statement, so I got her out of there.”

Coulson nods thoughtfully. “Are you being followed?”

“Not yet,” he says. “But once they realize they’re not under attack, they won’t be far behind.”

“Then we won’t hang around,” Coulson says as Skye comes flying back down the ramp, pushing a stretcher ahead of her. “Unfortunately, we don’t have room for your car.”

“That’s okay,” Grant says. “I remember where I parked it.”

The joke makes Coulson chuckle, but he sobers as they watch Trip carefully lift the princess out of the car and onto the stretcher.

“Do the Children of Vanir get much outside news?” he asks.

“Nope.” Weirdly restless, Grant tucks his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Didn’t even know the princess had been kidnapped until they dragged her into the meeting.”

“Queen Adora’s been threatening Armageddon,” Coulson says. “If you’re gonna come back for your car, I suggest you do it very soon.”

He’s not kidding—or Queen Adora isn’t, really. Grant’s flown over the ruins of the Chitauri Kingdom more than once, so he’s got a pretty clear picture of what Queen Adora’s enemies look like when she’s done with them.

A whistle from Trip stops him from saying so.

“Help me push her up the ramp?” he asks.

Grant hurries over. “Yeah, of course.”

Unconscious on the stretcher, the princess looks frail and small and helpless—nothing at all like the woman who demanded the respect of her title from her kidnappers, who met Grant with cool disdain and easily said he’d have to kill her right in her cell.

His hands itch for his gun.

If he comes back to Vana anytime soon, it won’t be to fetch the car.

 

 

+++

 

 

Jemma floats slowly into wakefulness. The world is lovely and soft around her; clouds blanket her in warmth and comfort, and a quiet, steady beep reassures her that she’s left the silence of her cell behind.

It’s quite an improvement.

Opening her eyes takes a while, she thinks; she’s so comfortable, so settled, that mustering up the energy for even so slight a movement is a struggle. It’s easier to laze in the darkness, to let the world continue around her unseen.

She does get there eventually, though, and finds herself in an unfamiliar and dimly lit room. Not dimly lit in any nefarious way, though: it’s only that the overhead lights are off, and the only source of illumination is shining in from the window.

It’s enough to see by, in any case—enough to recognize (after a longish moment) Ward slumped in the chair beside her bed. Fortunately, he’s not paying her enough mind to catch her brief confusion; all of his attention is on the tablet in his lap.

His lovely face is all frowny. Still devastatingly attractive, but she likes it better when he smiles.

“Bad news?” she asks, and then does some frowning of her own. Her voice is very hoarse. Not attractive.

At least Ward’s smiling now. That’s something.

“Hey,” he says, which isn’t an answer. “How you feeling, Your Highness?”

“No.” She frowns at him. “I don’t like that.”

“Don’t like what?” he asks, frowning in return.

“No ‘Your Highness,’” she says. “You should call me Jemma.”

That brings his smile back. “Okay, Jemma. How do you feel?”

“Mm.” She snuggles deeper into the cloud—no, pillow—beneath her. “Soft.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. “You’ve got a couple of cracked ribs—and you were right, your knee’s a mess. You’re gonna need surgery on that.”

Jemma considers that. Surgery is bad, but…

“Broken ribs and surgery,” she says. “Weeks of recovery. Good.”

“Good?” Ward echoes, plainly incredulous.

Incredulous. Increeeeeeeeeedu _lous_. What an amazing word. Jemma should use it more often.

“In-cred-u-lous,” she sounds out to herself. Such fun to say.

“Jemma.”

She blinks at Ward. He’s smiling again, which is nice. “Hm?”

“Why is needing weeks of recovery good?” he asks.

Oh, that.

“It’s my birthday soon,” she says. “There’ll be a ball. I won’t be able to dance.”

“You don’t like dancing?” Ward asks.

Jemma frowns, wondering where he got such a ridiculous idea. “I love dancing. That’s why Mum always holds a ball for my birthday.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So why is it good that you won’t be able to do it?”

Yes! Right! She forgot they were talking about that.

“If I can’t dance, I don’t need an excuse for not dancing with Leopold,” she explains.

Ward frowns a bit. “Who’s Leopold?”

“Fitz,” she says, which doesn’t appear to clear things up for him. “He’s my best friend.”

“But you don’t wanna dance with him?”

Jemma shakes her head, enjoying the way it doesn’t hurt. “He’s in love with me and everyone expects me to return his feelings. They’ll push me to dance with him and everyone will watch and it will be awful.”

“No, it won’t,” Ward disagrees. “You can’t dance, remember?”

“Oh! Yes!” She beams at him, delighted. “That’s good news.”

Ward chuckles, a nice low sound that settles in Jemma’s chest and warms her all the way through. It’s lovely—it was so cold in her cell.

Her cell.

“Is Mum here?” she asks. “She must be worried.”

He shakes his head. “We’re still in flight. ETA’s another,” he checks his watch, “two hours. You weren’t out for very long.”

“Does she know I’m all right?”

“All right’s a relative term,” he says, with a sideways sort of smile. “But yeah, she knows you’re alive and free.”

“Thanks to you.” Jemma reaches for him, wiggling her fingers in impatience when he doesn’t take her hand at once. When he finally _does_ , she’s not surprised at all to find how well their palms fit together. She has a good feeling about Ward. “Thank you, Ward.”

“Grant,” he corrects. “It’s only fair.”

“Grant, then,” she says, and squeezes his hand. Or tries to, at least; she’s not certain how well she manages. “Would you dance with me at my birthday, Grant?”

He opens his mouth, pauses, and then chuckles a little. It’s a lovely sound.

“Sure,” he says. “I’d love to.”

She’s glad. It will be nice to dance with him, she thinks.

Her eyes close as she imagines it—the strong arms that carried her away from that place escorting her around the dance floor, his lovely shoulders decorated with her family’s coat of arms, how pretty his smile would be in the light of the chandeliers—and, once closed, are far too heavy to open again.

Still holding his hand, warm and comfortable and finally safe, Jemma drifts gently back into sleep.


End file.
